For the Children
by Dried Ink
Summary: Sally Donavan has been misrepresented and maligned by the fandom more than almost any other character. This will be a series of one-shots covering both pre- and post- Reichenbach
1. the one we failed

Sally's been maligned by the fandom more than almost any other character- she's unsympathetic in the show because she dislikes Sherlock, but, let's be honest, he's a bit of an ass to her. This will be a series of one-shots from her point of view, from different times, starting with this post-reichenbach one.

* * *

"Please. I know why you're here. Just-just- listen, okay? I need somebody to bloody listen and I don't give a fuck that he was your friend and you blame me.

Sorry.

But I rehearsed this, okay?

Just give me a moment to catch my breath.

No.

I'm sorry.

I just can't- I'll record it, okay? I'll send you a recording. Just- I need you to listen."

* * *

I would like very much to tell you, Greg, that it wasn't my fault. Really, I would. And, whatever he may have said, I'm smart, and I know, logically, that it wasn't my fault.

I didn't kill him, he did.

He's the one who created this fantasy world, who created demons so that he could be an angel coming at our hour of need, and then, when it fell apart, he's the one who jumped.

I know that. Those are facts.

But I keep thinking of my nephew, the one who's only six years old. He told me only last week that he was a pirate, and that the sofa was his ship, and his sinter cap was really a proper pirate's tri-corner.

And I just kept thinking, my God, this is what Sherlock was like. I remember those eyes, oh, he hid it sometimes, but I remember. He was so _gleeful_ at the bodies and the puzzles and the grandness of the world he saw. My nephew and him both, just so childishly excited.

Sometimes I just wonder what he would have been if he wasn't so smart. Like my nephew, a child, but forever, I think. That's all he was, in the end, a small child hiding in a man's body with a man's brain.

God! He used to sulk like one too.

But then there's me, isn't there? And I'm an adult. I've worked through the ranks, I've shown myself to be responsible and strong and fucking smart. But then he comes and throws playground insults, and I just respond in kind, a little girl whose pigtails have been pulled.

It wasn't my fault, and I won't apologize, Greg. I'm sorry, I know that's why you came here, why you asked us all to write about it.

It wasn't my fault. But, God, I'd do anything to take it back.

Or just to go back and remind myself that this is just a small child playing make believe, and that he has access to guns and knives, and that ruthlessly crushing a child's dream is cruel.

I'm sorry I can't fix it for you, Greg. I can't take it back, I can't tell you it was my fault, I can't tell you that I'm sorry for what I did because- look at the numbers- it's cold, but we killed one overgrown child, and we saved how many? Will we ever know?

And I hate it, those burdens and that pain. I hate that I had to be the one to pull the trigger and fucking kill a little boy because he was smart enough to start to convince people that his dreams were real.

Where would I be if my nephew was so smart? Cowering at his pirate's gaze? I can't imagine.

But you wanted to know what I felt, Greg, and that was selfish of you, because I have no fucking clue.

I did the right thing. I saved people, protected the commonwealth. But, oh dear God, I killed a child, piece by piece, taking his dreams and friends and family and then his life.

Don't you dare tell me that I'll be fine.


	2. the black square

**So, this is the part where this story could go one of two ways. I will do the Great Game, and probably a few more ones based closely on the show. The question, however, is if you guys want me to focus on Sally/Sherlock interaction, or if you'd like me to go more into who Sally is both within and** **outside of her job. Tell me in reviews.**

**Whichever you choose, the next chapter will be significantly longer.**

* * *

**This is another post-Reichenbach, but it takes place a bit later than the last one.**

* * *

I saw his grave, yesterday.

I almost didn't, I wasn't going to, but I'd visited my sister, and she'd been off again, and I hadn't been able to look at my boyfriend for a week because, fuck, we killed a little boy, and work was crap for so many reasons.

So there I was, alone in my car, wondering what the hell had happened to my life, and sort of hoping for that cathartic release that comes from sad music and slow, calm tears.

And then I saw the graveyard, and, fuck, why not, so I bought a nice big yellow flower, because, you know, that's what people do, and walked over in my jeans and t-shirt.

I stood there for a while, holding that flower, staring at that black square, which was _wrong_, and waiting for the tears to come because I'd killed a little boy, and he'd killed so many, and those poor children almost died, and I'd yelled at my sister when she hadn't understood, and I'd ignored my boyfriend, and he has a fucking wife.

What the hell happened to my life?

But then my phone rang, and even though I ignored it I realized that the flower was a crumpled pulp, the pigment of the petals staining my left hand, and I still hadn't cried, so I announced to the black square that I would go apologize to my sister, but I went home and laid on the couch and drank wine and cried instead.


End file.
